Emotion and Rational Thought
by SKH
Summary: Dick pulls "Alfred-duty" during Bruce's injury recovery and deals with his mentor's housekeeping shortcomings


Emotion and Rational Thought

By SKH 

©December 2000  
Rating: PG-13  
Characters: Nightwing/Batman/Dick/Bruce  
Disclaimer: All characters owned by DC Comics. No profit is realized from creation of stories based on these characters.  
Timeframe: Huntress Miniseries 2 of 6, after Batman takes the arrow in the shoulder; Pre-Hunt for Oracle  
This story also briefly references my previous story "Gotchoo"  
Summary: Dick pulls "Alfred-duty" during Bruce's injury recovery and deals with his mentor's housekeeping shortcomings  
Comments and feedback are welcome to SKHwrite@aol.com

* * *

It wasn't her fault, it was and accident. I realize that now. Actually, I knew it then, but sometimes emotion overrules rational thought. Isn't that what HE has been trying to drive home for most of the years of my training and career? But hey, it's not exactly in my nature to be icily detached and dispassionate when the closest person I have resembling a parent is bleeding to death.

It was a lightning-fast chain of events: the rooftop confrontation with Huntress — she went down, the crossbow discharged, the arrow released dead-on for the center of my chest. Did I say lightning-fast? At that instant everything slowed down for me as I twisted, contorted, and contracted my body to avoid the short-range, high-impact penetration. I could have kissed my aorta good-bye, except I'd have probably been dead before my body hit the ground. Huntress' arrows have no respect whatsoever for Kevlar. I heard and felt the arrow pass by me with microns to spare. Skill and luck were on my side — skill saved my ass, luck kept me from pissing my Spandex.

And to our horror, Huntress and I realized that her accidental 'friendly fire' (although that may be debatable) had found a target other than my thoracic region. The errant, deadly projectile had lodged up to its flights in Batman's upper right chest! Higher than it would have struck me, given our height differential and the upwardly angled trajectory, but still low enough to pierce possible vitals such as the top of the right lung and the brachial artery. In short, not good news at all, even for the Batman, who held the protruding end of the arrow lightly between index finger and thumb, regarding it with uncharacteristic surprise.

Emotion over rational thought. Of all the times I'd have actually wished I could be as "cold" as him, this should have been it. Did I rush to levelheadedly render critical first aid? Hell, no, of course not!

"You HURT HIM!" was the first thing out of my mouth, and then I proceeded to waste precious seconds thoroughly kicking the ass of the woman I had thoroughly devoured in sexual passion one night, a year or so earlier.

By the time my attention returned to the one-time center of my universe, he had disappeared. I saw where his jumpline was attached, and looked over the edge of the rooftop to see him descending the building to the alley below. Over I leaped, and beat him down to the ground so I could help him to solid footing.

The "car" silently appeared, answering his beckoning signal. I eased him into the passenger seat, and then jumped behind the wheel to speed us to Leslie Thompkins' clinic, where she was waiting to receive him into the critical-care suite reserved just for us members of "the family."

Two hours later — during which time I'd spoken to Babs/Oracle four times, made a brief-but-futile visit back to look for signs of Huntress, and had spoken at length with Alfred (who, at Batman's request, was helping Tim to maintain his Robin activities and dual-identity difficulties while at Brentwood Academy) — Leslie declared Batman/Bruce Wayne's surgery a success. She stated her prognosis for his recovery, as well as her mandate for his care and recovery protocol.

Leslie Thompkins, the Bat-Family physician and surgeon, is Generals MacArthur, Patton, and "Stormin' Norman" Schwartzkoff all rolled into a five-foot, six-inch, one hundred-twenty pound package of absolute no-nonsense. She has a well-deserved "attitude," too, considering the difficulties she has encountered persuading us to follow her orders to the letter. Her mandate for Bruce: complete bed rest for at least a week (in Bat-shorthand, that's three days tops), constant supervision, wound-care, food, hydration, and medication.

Oh shit. In other words, someone was going to have to volunteer for "Alfred-duty," because Alfred was otherwise unavoidably obligated to assist Robin/Tim on Bruce's orders. Shit. I closed my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths to stifle the whine for mercy that was welling up in my throat. I knew good and well who was drawing the mental short straw.

It looked like Blüdhaven's criminal element was going to get a break from Nightwing for a few days. Dick Grayson still hadn't received a job offer from the Blüdhaven Police Department yet, and Babs swore that the grumbling that Nightwing had been hearing about Roland "Blockbuster" Desmond's increasing fury over his Oracle-pilfered offshore bank accounts were *nothing* to be unduly concerned about — no matter *how* bad a feeling I had in my gut about it.

So I volunteered for hazardous duty for the duration of Bruce's convalescence. No problem. I could do this. With Leslie's thanks, reassurance, and detailed instructions, I sped back to the Cave to clean up and change into some "civvies" that I kept there. I returned with Alfred's ambulance to transport Bruce back home for his recovery.

It was pre-rush-hour dawn when we made our way back to the recently reconstructed Wayne Manor. Bruce was conscious, but pretty subdued. Significant blood loss has a way of doing that to him, I've noticed. Both Alfred and Leslie and agreed that Bruce would be okay in his own bedroom, rather than "downstairs" in the Cave's infirmary. I parked the ambulance in the garage and helped ease Bruce into a wheelchair for the short trip into the house. No way would he opt for the gurney with me at the helm. He's never appreciated my high-speed gurney races down the lengthy Wayne Manor hallways. Funny, my Mom never liked it when I did the same thing with shopping carts in the supermarket, either.

The first thing that caught my attention when we entered the house was a kind of *stale* smell. How can a *new* house smell stale? It was kind of like dust and — socks — or something. Disregarding that sensory input temporarily, Bruce and I rode the lift to the floor where his bedroom was located. We rolled out of the lift and down the corridor to the master bedroom in silence, stopping in front of the closed double doors.

I stepped up, opened the doors, and switched on the overhead lights. And froze in my tracks. 'Holy deja-vu, Batman,' was this my old college dorm room? Clothes were in various piles on the floor, drinking glasses and coffee cups were placed on totally verboten surfaces, the bed was not only unmade, but the linens were almost completely off the mattress, and — I could not believe my eyes — an empty pizza box sat on a chair. I swear, all that was missing were the Bob Marley posters and Playboy magazines. Giddy, a childlike, singsong ditty ran through my head: "You're gon-na be in trou-ble, Al-fred'll whip your hin-ey." I quickly suppressed that evil delight and turned back to Bruce.

But Bruce was still kind of out of it, so it would be absolutely *no* fun to bust his chops over his obvious and glaring shortcomings in housekeeping during Alfred's absence. I found the last of the clean bed linens, changed them out, and put Bruce to bed with a nicely potent antibiotic-and-sedative cocktail. I stayed with him until he was down for the count, and then decided to embark on an exploratory fact-finding tour of the house. First, I armed myself with a large lawn-leaf trash bag from the garage, unsure of what I might find. 

Now, Bruce Wayne is a man who has had a keeper — Alfred — all his life. Alfred has been major-domo (I really hate the term butler), valet, gentleman's gentleman, not to mention chief-cook-and bottle-washer, front-line trauma medic, home and field operative, surrogate parent, conscience, confidant, closest friend, and boo-boo kisser. Except for a period of time when Bruce was in his early twenties and traveled the globe educating himself and looking for a purpose, he has always had Alfred at his side and in his corner. That is, until Alfred went to Brentwood to help Tim out. This left Bruce completely alone to do the *real* bachelor thing.

I steeled myself to enter the kitchen, Alfred's pristine bastion of sterile stainless steel and marble. HA! Which was *now* a depository for a literal *mountain* of pizza boxes and Chinese take-out containers! Jeez, even *I* throw mine out on a regular basis! Ooh, and dishes piled in the sink: a capital offense in Alfred's book!

Torn between genuine sympathy for Bruce's helpless bachelor plight, and the temptation to videotape everything I saw for future blackmail purposes, I opted for the proactive path. I started cleaning. Three large trash bags and two dishwasher loads later, the kitchen began to resemble something Alfred wouldn't be likely to pepper our asses with his shotgun over. I am dead certain I'd have been caught in the scatter just by *being* in this house — guilt by association — and by my own less-than-perfect reputation for domestic discipline.

I took periodic breaks to run upstairs to check on Bruce, he was still asleep, thank God. While I was upstairs, I took the opportunity to gather dirty clothes, towels, and bed linens to bring back down to the laundry room. So for the next several hours — actually the rest of that day and a good deal of the next one, I toiled, cleaned, washed, scrubbed, and generally worked until I had calluses on my calluses. To bail him out. And why? Dunno. Yeah, I do — I'm just not saying. Not to *him*, anyway.

I think the reason I didn't find any bugs in the kitchen was because there wasn't a damned thing edible in it. So I ordered groceries to be delivered, including a few of my own personal indulgences. And contrary to popular belief, I CAN fend for myself in the kitchen well enough — I've never poisoned myself or any houseguests. I kept Bruce fed, medicated, clean, and bandaged. I checked on him damned near every fifteen minutes during all my work on the house.

So when Leslie — and Alfred, unexpectedly — showed up that next afternoon to examine and evaluate Bruce, the mess in the house had been substantially reduced, if not eliminated entirely. While Leslie looked in on Bruce, Alfred inspected the house, silently (with the exception of some skillfully expressed sighs, harrumphs, raised eyebrows, and clucks of the tongue).

"Master Dick, have I so poorly neglected this aspect of Master Bruce's upbringing? He's treating his newly restored ancestral home like so much chewing gum on the sole of his shoe." And with that remark, Alfred picked up a coffee mug with one finger through the handle, like *I'd* pick up evidence at a homicide scene. It was my coffee mug. I've admitted I'm not perfect, and it's not like I haven't been just a bit preoccupied.

"Umm, Alfred, it's my cup. I set it down on the sideboard when I went upstairs to check on Bruce. Must've forgotten it. Won't happen again. Uh, I don't suppose my pleading for mercy is helping here, is it?" I am twenty-four years old, so why did I suddenly feel like twelve?

"Richard, you may choose to live like a Bohemian, but please leave your lax habits in Blüdhaven where they belong." His back was turned to me so I have no idea what his expression was, but his words *sounded* sincere enough.

Could I *please* just have a rational thought over an emotional reaction? I came pretty close to ratting out the Bat over the condition of the house just eighteen hours earlier. Something wouldn't let me, though. No problem. I can do this. It might take biting a hole in my lip to do it, but I'll see this thing through.

I followed Alfred up to Bruce's room, where Dr. Leslie was tidying up, having cleaned and redressed Bruce's wound. Bruce, quite conscious now, and reclining back among his pillows, cautiously regarded Alfred with an almost imperceptible trepidation, as if anticipating the onslaught of a critical lecture. No doubt he'd have preferred facing every lunatic in Arkham at that moment to having to endure Alfred's wrath at Wayne Manor's deplorable neglect. And y'know, I might really have enjoyed watching the Bat squirm, since Alfred's the only person on the planet who can accomplish that feat.

But that old vestigial partner-bond bubbled to the surface, and as I stood behind Leslie and Alfred, I gave Bruce a wink and the "O-K" gesture. He looked at me for a second, then closed his eyes and relaxed. I left the room and went downstairs to get towels or some other crap out of the dryer.

A half-hour later I was finishing what I considered to be a well-deserved second beer as I grilled a cheese sandwich to go with Bruce's tomato soup, when Alfred entered the kitchen. He took my beer out of my hand, citing "Really, Richard, MUST you be drinking this?" Without missing a beat, I took it right back, "Al, I'm Bat-sitting tonight, not leaping off of any buildings. You have NO idea how much I MUST have this beer."

"And you have *no* idea how grateful I am to you for you have done, Master Dick. I truly wish I could relieve you of this responsibility — Dr. Thompkins wants Master Bruce to stay off his feet for another forty-eight hours — yet I must return to Brentwood Academy and to Master Timothy"

I arranged the soup and sandwich on a tray, added some little baby carrots and some stone-ground wheat crackers on the side, and pulled another beer out of the refrigerator for myself. "Al, no problemmo. He'll be a good boy if I have to *sit* on him. I promise. Now scram. Go give Tim a kick in the kiester for me. I've got work to do." I left him and headed upstairs with the tray.

Some minutes after Leslie and Alfred left Wayne Manor, Bruce sipped his soup in silence, while I sat in a chair beside his bed sucking on my beer, socked-feet propped on the mattress, and surfed the cable channels with my usual staccato speed. Faster than I could register, a hand shot out, sending the TV-remote sailing across the room to smash into pieces against the wall. 

I just stared at him. He continued to sip his soup. I got up, walked over to the television, and turned it off. Then my beer and I left the room. 

Somewhere between my fourth beer and the ten o'clock news, I rode the lift upstairs with two baskets of cleaned and folded laundry. I peeked into Bruce's room — it *looked* like he was sleeping — so I went in and put the baskets down in his walk-in closet. I didn't feel like rooting around in dresser drawers to put the clothing away, so I just left the baskets there. I crossed the room to retrieve the tray of dinner dishes and started for the door.

"Thanks," I heard, as I reached for the doorknob. I stopped, but didn't turn around. 

"S'okay. You take those pills?" I asked. Doctor Dick.

"Just the antibiotic," he replied.

"But *not* the painkiller?"

"No."

(Sigh) 'Martyr' was the least horrible name that flashed through my head at that moment.

"Then maybe *I* should take it, because I have this Bat-shaped pain in my ass. Take the pill, Bruce."

"No. And maybe your ass might hurt less if you took it back to Blüdhaven." 

Oh, he'd *love* that, wouldn't he?

"And maybe Alfred would put it in a *sling* if I did. *Take* the damned pill, Bruce."

"No. You take it, and put it where your pain is."

"YOU take it, then you can KISS where my pain is, Bruce."

"Get out of my room and leave me alone." The Voice.

"Bruce, where's the remote?"

"On the floor over there, next to the wall."

I threw the tray and its contents against the same wall and watched the shattered china drop next to the pieces of the remote on the carpet.

"Now it has company. G'night Bruce."

Emotion over rational thought. Maybe I *shouldn't* have had that fourth beer. Last time I had more than two beers — a couple of weeks ago on an outing with Arsenal/Roy Harper, AKA *Satan-Incarnate* — I ended up with a VERY permanent reminder of the perils of *alcohol* over rational thought. All I needed was to get drunk and show my "permanent reminder"-bearing-ass to the Bat, who would likely go postal if he ever actually saw what had ended up there.

I woke up when the television switched channels from Conan to GNN, Gotham's cable news. I looked up from where I'd fallen asleep on the couch in the den to see him sitting in his big, overstuffed chair, feet resting on the matching ottoman.

"I was watching Conan."

"You were watching the insides of your eyelids."

"Go watch your own TV."

"This IS my TV, and I AM watching it." 

Touché.

"I mean, watch the one in your room. You shouldn't be out of bed, Bruce."

"I can't watch the one in my room. The remote is broken. And I'm tired of lying in bed."

"Bruce, there are a dozen other televisions in this house — why'd you have to come in here and change the channel on the one I'M watching?"

Silence. I effing *hate* it when he does that. I sighed and sat up.

"You want a cup of tea?"

"I'm out."

"I bought some. You want a cup of tea?"

"Earl Grey?"

"Too much caffeine for this time of night. You can have Lemon Zinger. With honey."

"Thanks."

"Yeah, whatever."

Six minutes later I returned with two steaming mugs of tea, handed him one, and returned to my nest on the couch.

"The house looks a lot better."

"It should. I worked my *ass* off to get it in shape before Alfred saw it."

"Same ass with the pain?" 

Did I detect the faintest trace of a half-smile? Maybe, maybe not.

In return, I smirked, no, damn, a full-out grin. Big one, too. *Damn*. I couldn't hold out. I'm losing my touch. Sometimes it takes so much effort to be stubborn and rebellious.

"The one and only! Hey, y'know, you might use your *detective skills* and figure out where the *garbage* cans are kept, Bruce, and what day your trash pickup is."

"Should I ask your advice on how to protect my city AND keep my house sparkling clean? Since when did you become the Masked-Martha Stewart of Gotham City?"

Cute. The Bat made a joke. 

"No, that's gonna be your gig, Bruce, *I'm* the Masked-Martha Stewart of Blüdhaven. Actually, my housekeeping skills have really improved, ever since Babs had me install the security cameras in my apartment. She jumps my case if shit piles up too badly."

"Nice to know she's jumping *something* of yours." 

— Oh, *ouch*. That was not bad.

"Whoa! Good Humor-Man! Just how much of that medication HAVE you taken tonight?"

"Alfred wasn't fooled, Dick. He's well aware of my — limitations — above Cave-level. But I appreciate what you've done here. I'm sure Alfred expected he was going to have to do it all himself, and I'm trying to keep that burden off his shoulders."

"Bruce, I appreciate what you're *both* doing to help Tim. So this has to be a collective family effort. We Bat-boys stick together — only I really *don't* want to have to wash your undershorts again, Bruce."

""

"But let me share a couple of things I've learned about superhero-home-management, Bruce. Listen up. Frozen pizzas are convenient and have smaller boxes to have to dispose of. Never underestimate the importance of peanut butter. Milk comes in boxes you can store in the pantry without refrigeration until you open them. And I know I've told you this before — two words: Frozen Burritos."

"Those didn't work out."

"What didn't work out?"

"The burritos. They didn't work out."

"How can frozen burritos not work out? It's food of the freaking Gods, Bruce — a couple of minutes in the microwave, minimal package to throw out, high in protein and fiber"

"They didn't work out, that's all I'm saying."

I drank my tea and tried to wait out the pregnant pause.

"They compromised my stealth."

"Huh?"

"Stealth — burritos are not *conducive* to stealth."

"Oh. *OHH*. Stealth! Well. Okay, yeah. Then don't eat 'em BEFORE you go out on patrol." 

I took another sip of my tea.

I glanced over at Bruce and he did the same at me, and we both lost it. Well, he sort of chuckled and I *tried* to keep it at that level, for my own safety.

"Ow! Don't make me laugh, Dick, it hurts."

"Maybe you should just eat oatmeal, then. Something nice and bland."

"Maybe you should just drop it."

"Hey, I'm only trying to be helpful here."

"I said *drop* it." The Voice.

"Consider it dropped."

"Good."

After another ten minutes or so I suggested he go back to bed, and I was surprised not to get a big protest about it. He even took the painkiller, as well as the antibiotic.

The next morning, he was in the bathroom when I brought up his breakfast. Smiling, I put the tray containing a covered plate, glass of juice, silverware, and the morning newspaper on the foot of his bed. On my way out the door, I called to him that breakfast was served, and made my exit.

I had just made it to the foot of the stairs when the serving tray, dishes, silverware, juice glass, and burrito sailed over the railing, barely missed the chandelier, and crashed to the floor below. A second later his door slammed shut.

Emotion over rational thought.

With quiet satisfaction I cleaned up the mess, and headed into the kitchen to dish up the oatmeal.

* * *

- Fin 


End file.
